“Dude, that wassick,” DeShaun Rose yells.
“Best fight of the year,” Baron Dolce agrees, phone in hand. Some others have their phones out, recording the scene, too.
So much for keeping my head down and staying off the radar. It’s not like the Dolces left me much choice in the matter, though. They’ve already made me the center of attention. And even if they hadn’t, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone push me around.
In the office, I sit on one side of the door while Gloria sits on the other, both of us in the plushy chairs they have set up. Gloria crosses her arms and works her jaw, sticking her nose in the air and pointedly refusing to look my way. I almost laugh at her pettiness.
A nurse calls us in individually to look at our injuries. Gloria comes out looking almost normal, her hair smoothed back under a headband, every blonde strand in place again. She’s wearing a new white shirt tucked into her designer jeans, and aside from the swelling nose and a hint of what might be two black eyes forming from the blow, she looks normal.
“I hope I knocked your teeth loose,” she says as she walks by.
“You can really throw down for a prissy little bitch,” I reply. “I’m impressed.”
She huffs and turns away while I go in to get my face looked at. We both got a few shots below the neck, too, but nothing’s broken. The nurse tells me I’ll need stitches in my scalp if I don’t want a scar, and I almost laugh. No fucking way is my mom taking me to get stitches. If we had that kind of money, she’d buy herself some crystal and go party with her flavor of the week.
I let the nurse tape some gauze to it, even though it’ll hurt like hell to pull it out of my hair, and I take the ice pack she offers. When I get back out to the office, Gloria is gone, and the receptionist motions for me to go into another office. My first thought is that of course Gloria got away with it. She’s rich.
But when I walk into the office, she’s sitting at a round table with the principal and another admin person I don’t know who introduces herself as a counselor. They motion for me to take the fourth seat, an even cushier chair than the ones in the reception area. Prints from a local artist adorn the walls, and the heavy walnut table makes the room even more posh. Still, I can’t help but feel like I’m in an interrogation room, like one of the walls should be a one-way mirror.
“We don’t discipline students often around here,” the principal starts out, adjusting his tie and giving me a pointed look, as if he wants to add,At least we didn’t until you came along.
“Our philosophy leans more toward working out our conflicts and differences without punishments,” the counselor explains.
Shocking,I think to myself.And you wonder why your school is run by delinquents.
Or maybe they don’t wonder. Some things are the same for adults as they are for us. Money is power, whoever you are. In a place like this, most of the teachers have fancy degrees from Ivy League schools, and they might be smart as fuck, but they aren’t rich. Not like the donors, alumni, and parents. They know not to bite the hand that feeds them.
“We rarely have altercations of this severity,” the principal goes on, his accusatory gaze still on me. “Of course, there are legal ramifications in most instances like this, but we’ve spoken to both your families by phone, and both have declined to press charges.”
My heart lurches in my chest, all my snark gone.
Press charges? Fuck. I hadn’t even thought of that. At a school like this, they call fighting “assault.” No one at Faulkner—or very few—would press charges over something like this. The gangs fight on the daily, and sometimes it can’t wait until after school. So when anyone else fights, it’s not exactly shocking. Yeah, everyone buzzes about it for a hot minute, but it dies down and is forgotten by the end of the day.
“Can I go, then?” Gloria asks, crossing her arms and sulking.
I glance sideways at her, surprised she’s not protesting and saying I should be thrown in jail. Of course my mother isn’t going to press charges. She probably laughed in their faces when they asked. She doesn’t have the money to hire a lawyer or the authority to punish me. But I’m surprised Gloria’s esteemed parents aren’t pursuing it.
“We don’t want this school to become a place where people resort to violence to work out their conflicts,” the counselor says. “We’d like the two of you to resolve this issue before leaving here today.”
“Fine,” Gloria says, glowering at the wall. “I’m sorry I tried to knock your teeth out, Harper.”
I roll my eyes and play along with the charade. “I’m sorry I busted your nose and probably gave you two black eyes, Gloria. I throw a mean punch.”
“Noted,” she says icily.
“What prompted this attack?” the principal asks, still looking at me, because of course it must be my fault. A precious Walton would never start a fight.
“I threw a roach in her face,” I admit.
“And why would you do something like that?” the counselor asks.
I feel like I’m on fucking trial here.
“Because I was tired of her bullshit?” I offer.
“Let’s keep things civil,” the principal says, looking downright disgusted by the scholarship kid he allowed into his school, only to find out she dresses like a slut and fights like a lowlife.
“I’ll try,” I say with a tight smile.